During a state of rehabilitation, a cerebral clinic; flexing fire in in my wingtips, (black, blue and orange all at once).
Mother Nightingale narrates me, she says that patients are conditioned only to be sick.
My muse and sister, Sophia, around her home in Leipzig.
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Medicines are best administered as nectars from carriers of the Forest Mother. Her flora and fauna, fire and water, gather to your bedside and seep their remedial honeys in theatre-like synchronicity.
Blackbird feeds patients as if they were her young.
Luna in my home.
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